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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200449">One for the Ditch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cogan/pseuds/Cogan'>Cogan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>L.A. Noire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Detective Noir, Film Noir, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Game(s), Spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:54:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200449</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cogan/pseuds/Cogan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>November, 1947. Homicide detectives Stefan Bekowsky and Rusty Galloway are assigned a case where not everything is as it seems. Bekowsky wrestles with the death of an old friend.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Briefing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>Central Police Station 8:30 AM </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     “Good morning, lads,” the Captain began, “and a fine morning it is.”</p><p>     Sunlight streamed through the windows into the Homicide squad room. The captain stood in front of a chalkboard displaying the latest murder statistics in the city. A ceiling fan whirred softly overhead. Six detectives and a few uniformed officers sat scattered at desks around the room, most only half awake as Captain Donnelly gave them their morning briefing. Among them, seated side-by-side, were Stefan Bekowsky and Finbarr Galloway.</p><p>     The latter was slouched back in his chair. Finbarr “Rusty” Galloway was chewing the end of an already half-finished cigar. At a glance, he appeared disinterested in the usual morning proceedings. But after over two decades on the Force, Rusty practically had the captain’s spiel memorized. It always came down to some poor bastard that had bit the bullet and finding the person who did it. The only differences were the names, places, and times.</p><p>     Rusty’s partner of two months, Bekowsky, sat beside him. He was leaning forward on the desk in front of him. Stefan stifled a yawn with one hand, doing his best to pay attention to Captain Donnelly’s briefing. Not too long ago he’d had something of a reputation as a slacker, for taking the easy cases. There had been jokes and jeers about it. Bekowsky had made a good number of them himself. It hadn’t started out that way. At least, he didn’t think so. <em> I did some good work, </em> he reasoned. But after six years on patrol and another three working Traffic, maybe he had gotten complacent. At a certain point, Bekowsky had decided he may as well be in on the joke rather than the butt of it. It had served him well for quite a while. But in his last few months working traffic there’d been a change. He’d gotten a new partner and closed some notable cases. Cases that had landed him a promotion to Homicide. Now, he occupied a position both his and Rusty’s former partner had filled. <em> Cole…  </em></p><p>     “… which at last brings us to Galloway and young Mister Bekowsky,” Donnelly continued in his infamous, Irish brogue. “Another citizen of Los Angeles has been stricken down. Indeed, foul play is evident. 175 North Hope Street. Get to the scene, gentlemen.”</p><p>     The men began filing out of the room, armed with the tasks that had been assigned to them. Bekowsky pushed himself out from the desk and rose from his seat.</p><p>     “Come on, big guy,” he said to his partner.</p><p>     Rusty creaked out of his own chair with a weary groan. “Don’t rush me, kid. Our ‘vic’ isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”</p><p>     “Neither are we, at this rate.” Bekowksy cracked his signature, shit-eating grin.</p><p>     “Ha. Ha.”</p><p>     The two men made their way downstairs and out into the Los Angeles sun. November had come and a cooler temperature with it. Well, cooler for L.A. It was Bekowsky’s favourite time of year. Warm enough to enjoy but not so hot that he was sweating through his suit all day. Parked out front of the station sat Galloway’s Nash 600, dark and grey.</p><p>     “You drive.” </p><p>     Rusty ambled over to the passenger’s side. Not that it needed to be said. His veteran partner had made it clear very early on that Bekowsky would be doing most of the driving for the duration of their work. He vaguely remembered Rusty grumbling something about getting driven around when he’d put in the same years in the department. Bekowsky didn’t mind though, it was the price he paid for the jokes he made at his partner’s expense. He got behind the wheel and pulled out into traffic.</p><p>     A while later they pulled up to a red light. Stefan had been regaling his partner with the tale of a woman he’d attempted to woo a month or so ago. It had ended late at night in a cheap bar with a face full of wine. It got a laugh out of Rusty, which he had been told was rare. But Bekowsky had quickly learned that his partner had a taste for stories about spiteful women. And he had his fair share of those stories too. Then there was a beat of silence, a pause in the conversation as the two men waited for the light to change.</p><p>     “I know you can’t talk about the Dahlia,” Bekowsky started. They had gotten that out of the way within the first week of working together. “But I was wondering about the other cases you worked with Phelps. Not about the cases really, but ---”</p><p>     “I don’t want to talk about it,” interrupted Rusty in his usual, gruff tone. But there was something in the way he cast his eyes out the window. Maybe he was just a little hungover again. Bekowsky thought he saw some pain there. Either way, that was the end of the discussion. Then the light went green.     </p><p>     The crime scene was located in one of L.A.’s many suburbs. As the car turned onto the street, Bekowsky noted the state of the homes lining the road. Lawns where the grass was just an inch too long, toys laying out in the yard, and a lot of older car models. It was little things in the upkeep of properties that he often found marked them as lower income neighbourhoods. The houses were a decent size, but there were touch ups here and there to be made on most of them. The newest car on the block was the police cruiser parked behind the jet-black coroner’s van. Bekowsky pulled over behind the cruiser. The two detectives got out and walked up the front path to the house’s front door, where a uniformed officer was waiting.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Crime Scene</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>175 North Hope Street 09:17 AM </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     The officer was leaning against the railing of the front porch, arms crossed. “Just to the right, detectives. In the living room.”</p><p>     The front door was wide open. The two detectives walked right in. </p><p>     The hallway opened up into a carpeted living room. All the lights were on but the room seemed dim somehow. An olive green sofa and a large, cushioned armchair were positioned around a low coffee table. There was a doorway at the end of the room that opened up into the kitchen. At the front windows, directly across from the armchair, was an RCA television set on a stand. A low, rectangular box with a small screen in the centre and two knobs on either side. There was a man sitting in the armchair. He might have been watching the television if it wasn’t off - and if he didn’t have three bullet holes in him.</p><p>     “I guess we can skip the part where we ask what you’ve got, Mal.” Bekowsky strode over to the coroner’s side, careful not to step on anything that could be evidence.</p><p>     “Three gunshot wounds, two in the stomach and one in the upper chest,” said the coroner, ignoring the young detective’s quip. Malcolm “Mal” Carruthers was the LAPD’s busiest medical examiner. Carruthers was mostly bald, in his late forties, and took his work seriously. “The victim is Warren Fulton, forty-one. I put the time of death at around 1am last night.”</p><p>     “Then why the hell are we picking it up now?” Stefan stepped over to the armchair. The man wore only a bathrobe. It was dark red, but not as dark as the dried blood on his bare chest. “Do people not call in gunshots anymore?”</p><p>     “Or the night shift was slacking off again,” added Rusty. He was standing by the coffee table in the centre of the room, eyes slowly scanning over the area. Many often mistook it for laziness, but Stefan had sometimes seen his veteran partner pick up on details he had missed focusing on the obvious. That wasn’t to say that Rusty <em> wasn’t </em> lazy. Stefan just knew he had a lot more intuition as a case man than most gave him credit for. Often, more instinct than he bothered to use.</p><p>     “A few of the neighbours said the shots woke them up,” chimed in a second patrol officer, who was standing idle in the corner of the room, “but they thought they were kids playing with fireworks. When he didn’t show for work this morning, his secretary called the home. No answer, obviously, so she called the station to ask someone to check on him.”</p><p>     “At least the guy got one last drink.” Rusty nodded to the floor in front of the armchair. Lying at the dead man’s feet was an upended glass. The carpet was stained slightly darker where it had spilled. “Not a bad way to go, in my book.”</p><p>     “Most of us wouldn’t take being murdered just to go out with a glass of whiskey in our hand, Finbarr,” said Bekowsky. Rusty shot his partner an irritated look. He hated when people used his first name. “I don’t see a wedding band either. Looks like a strike for Rusty’s Razor.”</p><p>     “<em> Nine </em> out of ten times. It can be wrong once in a while,” said Rusty with a scowl. ‘Rusty’s Razor’ was a self-authored theory that Detective Galloway had coined himself. He professed that nine times out of ten in a homicide investigation the crime was perpetrated by the spouse or partner of whoever was sleeping the big sleep. More often than not, Stefan found the theory to hold true. Even when he worked Traffic, he had seen the lengths someone would go to not to be with their spouse.</p><p>     The two detectives proceeded to search the rest of the house for clues. The bedroom had been tossed. Drawers were pulled out of the dresser. Clothes had been scattered everywhere. A table lamp that had been knocked over cast unnatural, elongated shadows along the walls. It looked like it could have been a robbery, Stefan thought as he sifted through the discarded drawers. Rusty busied himself with nudging aside articles of clothing with the toe of his shoe to see what was beneath.</p><p>     “What do you think, random robbery or was this guy targeted? This guy sure tore the place apart.”</p><p>     “Sure did. I don’t know what he thought he’d find under the sheets. Maybe hoped he’d get a broad out of the deal too.” Rusty chuckled at his masterful insight of the criminal mind. The sheets on the bed <em> were </em> thrown, but it could have just as easily been that the late Fulton didn’t put the effort into making it. “I’ve got a wallet on the bedside table. No cash in it, but there’s a photo of two kids.”</p><p>     “So he may have been married after all. Maybe divorced?” Stefan dug through another drawer, tossing folded up underwear onto the floor.</p><p>     “I wouldn’t take odds our vic was carrying around a photo of his niece and nephew with him. Rusty’s Razor could still have a shot, Bekowsky.”</p><p>     “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, partner?” Stefan reached into the drawer he had currently been inspecting and held up a thick roll of hundred dollar bills. “Tore the place apart, but he didn’t do a good job of searching it while he did.”</p><p>     “And our perp didn’t ransack the closet either,” said Rusty, pointing to the open door in the corner of the room.</p><p>     Stefan rose to his feet, thoughtfully weighing the roll of cash in his hand. “So either we have LA’s lousiest burglar on our hands or this was made out to look like a robbery gone bad.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Business Partner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     The first stop following the crime scene was the victim’s place of employment where his secretary had called from and alerted the police, what had kicked off the whole case in the first place. From what they could tell it was an insurance company offering all the usual policies: fire, property, life, and more. Stefan reckoned a guy working there would have a pretty decent policy and payout. Only thing was, their victim didn’t seem to have anyone close enough to him to collect as far as they knew. The photograph of the two kids was a lead but they still had to follow up on it. On top of that, Fulton must have been high enough in America West that he had his own secretary but not well enough off that he couldn’t afford more than the small house he had in that blue collar neighbourhood. To Bekowsky, it was yet another contradiction in the growing list of them.</p><p>     In his experience, murder almost always boiled down to the same two things - love and money. Even when the motive was love or jealousy, money inevitably seemed to get tangled up in it. One of the cases Stefan and Cole had worked involved an apparent hit-and-run victim. By all accounts the guy was a boozehound and a fiend, a real specimen of humanity. His wife fell in love with her business partner and together the two conspired to murder her husband and claim his insurance money to open a bar. Love, murder, and insurance money - the Unholy Trinity. It was a combination that was all too common in the detective’s line of work.</p><p><em>     Insurance companies. </em>Stefan inwardly scowled at the thought. They trailed close behind car salesmen in his list of unlikeable professions. It was just under two months since the Suburban Redevelopment Fund had been exposed. A group of the city’s powerful and elite that had bought up land where a new freeway was meant to be developed and built cheap, unsafe housing developments to inflate the land value and embezzle millions of dollars from the government. The vice president of California Fire &amp; Life had provided the insurance agreement for the development and was instrumental in covering up several suspicious house fires that occurred and the deaths they resulted in.</p><p>     Cole Phelps, his partner, Herschel Biggs, and an old war comrade of Cole’s had been instrumental in bringing the criminal enterprise and their crimes to light. Almost two months since they had brought down the SRF. Two months since Cole had been swept away and drowned in the river tunnels beneath the city. They never found the body. In the end, a few key players were locked up for their crimes or wound up dead. However, just as many escaped justice, slinking back into the shadows behind the twin pillars of power and corruption that seemed to hold up the entire city.</p><p><em>Jack… Jack Something. That was his name.</em> He had seen Cole’s friend from the war at the funeral. Stefan remembered looking over when Elsa had stormed out during Earle’s eulogy for the man he had betrayed. Jack, looking worse for wear, had been sitting with her and Biggs. Whatever had happened in those tunnels, whatever danger they faced, Jack’s scars and bruises told him that the man had been willing to follow Cole right to the end of the line. Stefan had meant to speak with him following the service, but the last he had seen of Jack was his back as he walked out of the church into the afternoon sun.</p><p>“Kelso…”</p><p>“What was that?” Rusty glanced over at his partner with a passing bit of interest.</p><p>Stefan shook his head and kept on driving. “Nothing, partner. Nothing at all.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>America West Insurance Co. 10:44 AM</em>
</p><p> </p><p>     The America West Insurance Company was located right outside of the downtown core on Figueroa. Its offices occupied the first two floors of a brick building on the sunny side of the street. Traffic motored along and people contently strolled by on the sidewalk. Just another idyllic morning in the City of Angels. Bekowsky parked his partner’s vehicle out front and together the two went in.</p><p>     The woman at the reception desk in the front lobby rose and briskly strode over to greet them as they entered the building. At first Stefan thought someone had called ahead and apprised Fulton’s co workers of the situation, but the plastered on smile told him otherwise.</p><p>     “How can I help you two gentlemen today? Let me guess, travel insurance! A company trip perhaps?” Of course, she thought they were customers. The corners of her mouth were turned up in the kind of forced cheeriness only someone whose job depended on selling you something could muster.</p><p>     Stefan put on a brave face and steeled himself for the receptionist’s reaction when he broke the news. “Actually, ma’am, we’re -”</p><p>     “That’s right, company trip,” said Rusty, interjecting rather flatly. His partner did a double-take that denoted his confusion. Galloway couldn’t have had <em>that</em> much to drink already. “We’re here to see Warren Fulton, booked an appointment for this morning.”</p><p>     “Oh, I’m afraid he’s not in right now, gentlemen.” The rigid smile was briefly overshadowed with worry before the woman hastily added, “Perhaps you would like to talk to Mr. Emerson instead?”</p><p>     “Sure, that’d be great.” Rusty managed something that resembled half a smile in return but the receptionist didn’t seem to mind the lack of sincerity. She continued on to tell them that Emerson’s office was on the second floor just down the hall from Fulton’s, that it was impossible to miss.</p><p>     “Who’s Emerson? And what the hell was that?!” Stefan asked out of the corner of his mouth as they made their way up a set of stairs to the second floor. He could hear the fading sound of the receptionist dialing a phone at the desk behind them.</p><p>     “Dunno. Thought it would be less suspicious than asking to see a guy who’s actually dead. Easier to poke around that way, get a genuine reaction out of people.”</p><p>     That got a smirk out of Stefan. It was like Rusty had these tricks-of-the-detective-trade ingrained in his muscle memory from his years of experience on the force. Which was a good thing, because if he didn’t have those he would probably be completely hopeless.</p><p>     Outside of Fulton’s office there was a desk and a girl in her mid-twenties sitting behind it. It would have been apparent to anyone walking by that she was in an emotional state. She sat staring unblinkingly at her typewriter and the semi-typed sheet of paper loaded into it. Her long, elegant fingers lay still over the black keys. Her eyes were sullen and red. Not from a sleepless night, Bekowsky surmised.</p><p>     “Doing alright there, sweetheart?”</p><p>     “Umm, yes.” The girl sniffled and wiped at the corner of one eye. “How can I help you two today?”</p><p>     “LAPD, miss. Are you Warren Fulton’s secretary?” Rusty started off in his usual, gruff way, skipping straight to the point.</p><p>     “Detectives Bekowsky and Galloway,” added Stefan with a smile.</p><p>     “Y-yes. I’m Alice. I called the police when Mr. Fulton didn’t show up for work this morning. Did you find him? Is he alright?”</p><p>     “I’m afraid we have some bad news. Your boss, Mr. Fulton... he was found dead in his home this morning.”</p><p>     Already primed to go, those reddened eyes welled up with glistening tears. Alice buried her face in her hands and started sobbing right there at her desk. The two detectives looked at each other with expressions indicating they had seen their fair share of sudden grieving. After all, many times they were the first to deliver the morbid news that a loved one, a friend, or a coworker had been brutally murdered. Delivering some of the worst news a person could hear in their life wasn’t the easiest thing to do.</p><p>     Seeing someone break down and lose a piece of themselves because of something he had said made Stefan uneasy. What made him more uneasy was how much easier it got each time. Sure, he still felt bad for the person but he saw how little it affected his partner. For Rusty, it seemed like a minor nuisance before he got to put the screws on a suspect. It might help a cop stay objective when questioning someone, though at what cost? After years of passable detective work Stefan was finally striving to be a great one, but he didn’t want to be a worse human because of it.</p><p>     The detectives waited a moment until Alice’s crying had subsided to the point she was just as red-eyed and sniffly as when they had first approached.</p><p>     “Wh-what happened? Did he have a heart attack?”</p><p>     “Someone decided to fill your boss with daylight late last night, sweetheart.”</p><p>     Stefan added more gently, “Fulton was found murdered in his home.”</p><p>     The poor girl’s eyes welled up again threatening to spill over into full on waterworks. But she held it together and continued on. “What happened? Who could have done such a thing?”</p><p>     “That’s what my partner and I are hoping you can help us figure out.” Stefan leaned on the edge of the secretary’s desk and took out his notebook while Rusty stood with his hands in his pockets. “Could you tell us first where you were last night, Miss…?”</p><p>     “Preston, Alice Preston.” She wiped the rest of the tears out of her eyes. “I was at home last night.”</p><p>     “Can anyone confirm that?”</p><p>     “Y-you think I…?” Alice’s eyes fluttered briefly, the kind of flutter you imagine way down in your gut when you see a pretty dame. “I guess a neighbour might have heard me come in. But I live alone…”</p><p>     Bekowsky jotted down her address and the names of the neighbouring tenants before continuing with his questioning. “How long have you worked for Fulton?”</p><p>     “Since this past August. I’m pretty new to the company compared to some others here.”</p><p>     “And did he have any enemies that you knew of, anyone that would want to hurt him?”</p><p>     “Did he have a moll, some kind of flame?” Rusty chimed in.</p><p>     “No. No, not Mr. Fulton. He’s… was divorced, since this past spring.”</p><p>     Rusty gave his partner a sidelong look that Stefan tried his best to ignore. “Had he been in contact with his ex-wife? Were things friendly between them?”</p><p>     “Warren had two kids, so he was in contact with her regularly. But he didn’t speak much about them.”</p><p>     “And what about any enemies he may have had?”</p><p>     Alice’s eyes shifted down to her typewriter, avoiding Stefan’s own. “Enemies? No, not really. Warren, he --”</p><p>     “Ah, you must be the two detectives from the LAPD.”</p><p>     Both Bekowsky and Galloway turned their heads to see a man in his mid-sixties approaching from down the hall. He was balding and wore a look of concern but no suit jacket. The man walked forward and extended a hand to Galloway. “I am Rodney Emerson, Warren’s partner. Tell me, what’s happened?”</p><p>     Rusty shook Emerson’s hand but kept the other in his pocket. “I think it’s best if we speak privately, Mr. Emerson.”</p><p>     Emerson’s eyes hesitated, faltering between the two men before settling on the girl still sitting and sniffling at her desk. “Are you alright, Alice?”</p><p>     “Yes,” she said, wiping again at her eyes and putting on a brave smile. The smile you wear at a funeral when you say it’s good to see someone but the truth of it all is written everywhere else on your face. “Thank you, Mr. Emerson.”</p><p>     Emerson’s eyebrows remained pinched together, unconvinced of the answer he had received. He accepted it with a hesitant nod and gestured down the hall. “My office is this way, gentlemen. Please.”</p><p>     Bekowsky took a final look at Alice. The tears were gone and she had regained her composure. He wanted to ask her more but they had Fulton’s business partner to question. Stefan didn’t want to ask the broad any more questions right in front of him either in case it made her clam up. He had learned from Cole that asking the right question at the wrong time could be just as bad as asking a wrong one. So, Bekowsky reluctantly fell in line with his partner and followed Emerson down the hall to his office. But not before offering one last smile at the secretary before he did.</p><p>     “Thanks for your time, Alice. Take care now.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Dead? Oh, Jesus.” Emerson leaned his head on his hand as though it would topple over onto his desk if he didn’t. The two fingers steepled against his temple made Sefan think he looked like a cheap imitation of a gypsy fortune teller trying to read their minds.</p><p>     They were seated on two cushioned chairs across from Emerson’s desk. The private office was small but not cramped. A wall unit was stocked to the brim with books of various shapes and sizes as well as a family photo here and there. You could go so far as to say it was cozy for a business office.</p><p>     “Mr. Emerson, you and Warren Fulton own this company together?” Stefan’s notebook flipped open yet again, pencil at the ready.</p><p>     Emerson slowly nodded his head and deeply inhaled before responding. “We do… did, I guess. His father and I started America West together after the Great War. Warren’s first job was here, he practically grew up in this office. When his old man died before the Second War, Warren took his place as partner and we’ve run it together since.”</p><p>     “And your partnership was a smooth one? No fights or disagreements about the business?”</p><p>     “Warren and I had our disagreements like any business partners,” said Emerson, one finger scratching at the side of his chin in agitation. “Sometimes I saw things one way, him another, but we always sorted it out in the end.”</p><p>     “Lying to us isn’t going to do you any favours, Rodney.” Stefan’s voice hardened, cutting like a knife through the stillness in the air. “This is a murder investigation. Now how about you tell us the truth before you back yourself into a corner.”</p><p>     The older businessman blinked rapidly. His mouth bobbed open and shut a few times like a fish trying to think of something to say. Emerson shook his head before splaying his hands out on the desk before him.</p><p>     “Alright, okay. It’s just, I mean, it’s nothing. It has nothing to do with any of this. Warren’s like a <em>son</em> to me.”</p><p>     “We’ll be the judge of that,” said Rusty.</p><p>     “Okay… okay. Warren’s father was a huge loss to the company, not just to us personally but to the company as well. When he died most of his clientele stayed with us but some left. Then Pearl Harbour happened, the war broke out, and we took another big hit. Warren was drafted too. We never quite recovered as a company after the war - Warren’s absence and the people we lost. For a smaller insurance company like ours it was difficult.</p><p>     “We were getting by, but with the way things were going and with my age… when the offer came in it was too good to be true. California Fire &amp; Life made a bid to buy us out and take what was left of our customers. In my eyes it was the only way out. I couldn’t stay afloat as the ship was sinking. But Warren wouldn’t have any of it. America West was founded by his father and he couldn’t let go. He was determined that we could salvage it and build ourselves back up again. There’ve been shouting matches, slammed doors, all of it. We still hadn’t come to an agreement before, well, all of this now.”</p><p>     “And there’s nothing to stop you from selling off the company now, is there?” said Rusty.</p><p>     Emerson returned a piercing look to the detective. “I resent that implication. We disagreed, sure, but Warren was like a son to me.”</p><p>     Bekowsky cleared his throat. “You have to admit though, it’s a compelling motive.”</p><p>     “For a psychopath,” said Emerson, his mouth contorting in disgust. “Will that be all, detectives?”</p><p>     “One more thing. Where were you last night between the hours of midnight and 2 AM?”</p><p>     The businessman looked back and forth between the two other men and his anger slowly faded into exhaustion and sadness. In a moment, Emerson looked as though he had aged five years. His shoulders heaved with a long sigh. “I was at home in bed, with my wife.”</p><p>     The notepad flipped closed again and the pencil went away in Stefan’s jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Emerson. If we have any more questions we’ll be in touch.”</p><p>     With that Bekowsky and Galloway stood up from their chairs and left Emerson sitting almost as deflated in his chair as his former business partner had been found. He stared blankly at the top of his desk and didn’t look up as the office door closed.</p><p> </p><p>     On the way out, Stefan wavered behind while his partner went on downstairs.</p><p>     Alice was still sitting at her desk. Her tears had now subsided but she was as blank and dejected as the man they had just left. The half-typed paper in her typewriter hadn’t budged an inch. She looked up at him with a smile as he approached.</p><p>     “Hello Detective Bekowsky.”</p><p>     “You <em>do</em> pay attention, sweetheart. No wonder they pay you the big bucks.” That got a laugh out of her.</p><p>     “I wish! I -- um, can I help you with anything else?”</p><p>     “Yes, I think you can. When we were talking before and Mr. Emerson interrupted us, I was asking you if your boss had any enemies. I didn’t quite get your response.”</p><p>     “Oh, yes.” Alice spoke matter-of-factly, without any of the hesitation and uncertainty she had displayed before. “Well, we’ve had angry clients here like any other place, some who get especially aggressive.”</p><p>     Stefan could feel his small notebook weighing heavily in his jacket pocket. He could picture the page halfway through it, the one he had been writing on in Emerson’s office, and he could vividly see a particular sentence in his mind’s eye. “You lie well, sister, but you’re still lying. I know about California Fire &amp; Life wanting to buy this joint out and I know your bosses didn’t agree on it.”</p><p>     Alice stared at him with wide eyes for a moment before moving her head down. When she looked back up her eyes were welling with tears again. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just - I didn’t know if I should say. I didn’t want to get fired!”</p><p>     “I don’t think Fulton will be firing you anytime soon, but looks like you’ll still be out of a job. Tell me what you know.”</p><p>     There wasn’t much to add. She confirmed what Emerson had said about the bid to buy them out, the two business partners yelling in one another’s offices, and her boss’ refusal to sell. In the past week things had become tense enough that the two would shutter themselves in their offices and refuse to speak to each other.</p><p>     “Mr. Emerson said he was too old to start over like Warren could, that not selling would be the death of him,” said Alice. Ironically, the opposite had proven to be true.</p><p>     Bekowsky asked her about Warren’s divorce as well and, though she didn’t know much, provided him with the ex-wife’s address to follow up on.</p><p>     “Thanks, sister.” Stefan stopped as he was turning to leave. “Sorry, one more thing. When my partner and I got here you were crying at your desk, but we hadn’t notified anyone of your boss’ death yet.”</p><p>     Alice’s cheeks flushed red and she shook her head with a rueful laugh. “Oh, no, that was nothing. My boyfriend broke up with me the other night and it’s still fresh. I’m afraid I’m one of those women who is prone to tears.”</p><p>     Bekowsky carefully took in her features, the way her eyes avoided his in embarrassment but were still relaxed with truth. Genuine unease about her love life and a lie only because she was concerned about her job security. He’d certainly come a long way in reading people since his days in Traffic.</p><p>     Stefan thanked the secretary again and went on his way downstairs to reconvene with his partner and figure out their next move.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For anyone who has still stuck around, thanks for reading! I'm hoping the next chapter will not take nearly as long to get up - so stay tuned.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Cars, Bars, & The Recently Widowed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Writing is a fickle mistress when you have a solid beginning and end but a murky swamp in between where everything else should be. To those of you still reading after these incredibly long intervals between chapters, thank you for sticking around and I hope you enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     Stepping out of the insurance company and into the midday sun, the two detectives found the nearest gamewell down the street and ran Fulton’s former wife through R&amp;I. The search only took a few minutes. It turned out that Mrs. Fulton had kept her husband’s last name and still resided in the house that they used to live in together.</p><p>     Before they made a beeline for the ex-wife’s place. Stefan swung by Max’s Diner on Main Street. It was almost noon. The lunch rush was starting and the younger detective knew better than to be stuck in traffic with a hungry partner. <em> Especially </em> a hungry Rusty Galloway.</p><p>     Now, as the olive green Nash was held up by a long line of traffic, which in turn was being held up by an impossibly long red light, Rusty’s usual remarks were placated by the roast beef sandwich he was wolfing down.</p><p>     Stefan sat with one hand on the steering while the other arm holding his pastrami on rye rested on the rolled down window. He idly nibbled at his sandwich while waiting for the traffic ahead to move. The Polish detective glanced over at his partner.</p><p>     “So you figure the ex-wife?”</p><p>     Rusty took another sizable chomp out of his lunch, hungrily chewing and swallowing it down before responding with a shake of his head. “Nope.”</p><p>     Bekowsky stared at him with perplexion as Galloway continued working on his sandwich without any further explanation. “Care to elaborate, partner?”</p><p>     The traffic ahead began to move forward and Stefan eased off the brake. Rusty gesticulated nonchalantly with his half-eaten sandwich as they made their way out of the downtown area.</p><p>     “It’s all right there, plain as a hooker in church. Nine times out of ten our guy or dame bites it cause their partner is jealous, they’ve been screwin’ around on ‘em, they’re after the life insurance, you name it. But this broad here?” The sandwich almost flew out the window as Galloway wildly swung it around for emphasis. “This broad here already has it all. She’s got her divorce, the kids, and she’s sittin’ pretty in the house he paid for. Take that dump we found Fulton in, I’d say she got a good chunk of change out of it all too.”</p><p>     Stefan chewed on his partner’s speculation rather than his sandwich for a moment before uttering a simple, “huh.”</p><p>     “I’ve been divorced,” Rusty paused to count on his fingers, “three times now, trust me. I’ve got a knack for this kind of thing.”</p><p>     “Who do you figure then, the business partner?”</p><p>     “Why not? The motive’s there.”</p><p>     “Right. He’s hurting for money, selling America West was his ticket out, and Fulton was the one person standing in the way of it.”</p><p>     “Sounds pretty clear-cut to me.”</p><p>     “Except that’s only a motive. We don’t have proof he did it. Only an alibi that he didn’t.”</p><p>     “What, the wife? She could’ve been in on it. I know plenty of broad’s that’ve covered for their man.”</p><p>     Stefan considered that a moment, his finger tapping away on the steering wheel like a telegram operator. “What if she’s telling the truth?”</p><p>     “Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”</p><p>     “You think he could have hired someone?” Said Stefan, catching on quick to his partner’s line of thinking.</p><p>     Rusty looked over with a doubtful smirk. “The guy didn’t exactly strike me as the sort to pull the trigger on anyone in cold blood, much less this guy he thought of as a son.”</p><p>     “And we don’t have any way to follow up on that either. We don’t even have a murder weapon.”</p><p>     “I know, I know. It’s just…”</p><p>     Stefan looked over at his partner, who had trailed off into gazing out the car window at the parked cars and unhurried pedestrians going on about their day.</p><p>     “It’s just what?”</p><p>    “I’m not saying the guy did or didn’t do it.” Rusty popped the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, crumbs spilling over his shirt and pants. He swept them off and onto the car floor. “It’s just food for thought.”</p><p>     “You’re always thinking with your stomach, partner,” said the younger detective, rolling his eyes as he turned a corner.</p><p>     “Wrong. I think with my liver.”</p><p>     Stefan’s lip curled into a smirk. “That too.”</p><p> </p><p>     The ex-wife was a repeat of everyone else they had already spoken with. Due to the timing of it all she hadn’t been notified yet and the two detectives were once again the bearers of bad news. More tears, more sorrow within the confines of her front door. It was broken up by the sound of small footfalls from within the house.</p><p>     Stefan peaked past Barbara Fulton to spy a young girl and boy in the house before their mother shooed them away to play in the backyard. Their faces were small and soft, their eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and worry. But the two children dutifully obeyed their mother and slunk off down the hall to the back of the house.</p><p>     All Stefan could think about was how that little boy and girl were going to hear how they didn’t have a father anymore, which made him think about Cole’s two daughters. Their faces flashed into his mind from the funeral. The first time Stefan had seen them, the only time. Before he could put the thought out of his mind, Bekowsky felt it lance through his chest. He visibly winced at how much it hurt.</p><p>     “Are you okay, detective?”</p><p>     It was the woman’s voice. Stefan found both her and Rusty were staring at him.</p><p>     “Yeah, sorry, something I ate. I, uh… when was the last time you spoke with Warren?”</p><p>     Barbara Fulton’s eyes trailed away, thinking back, but Stefan could still feel his partner’s eyes boring into the side of his head.</p><p>     “Last week. Wednesday, maybe Thursday?”</p><p>     “Legalwork?” asked Rusty, eyes turned back to the woman. The scowl and accompanying lines on his face indicated he’d been through it all before.</p><p>     “No… no.” Barbara shook her head with a cynical laugh which gave way to a look of exhaustion. “We were talking again, talking about him visiting the kids and us doing things as a family. I don’t know what he… or if… I guess it doesn’t matter now.”</p><p>     “Did you ever talk to Warren about his business, the company?”</p><p>     “We talked about it when we were together but nothing very detailed. I wasn’t involved in it, if that’s what you’re asking.”</p><p>     “But you know Rodney Emerson, his business partner?”</p><p>     “Oh, oh yes. Of course I know Rod. He was a close friend before the divorce. He and his wife would come over here on Saturdays, play cards, that kind of thing. When Warren was away during the war, Rodney would come by and check in on me and the kids. He made sure we were taken care of.”</p><p>     Bekowsky’s eyes flitted across her face trying to glean whether she was telling the truth or not. The image of Cole’s two daughters invaded his mind, distracting him. It was like reading a book but not paying attention to the words then having to constantly skip back up the page. Was now widowed Mrs. Fulton being earnest? Was she lying through her teeth? When in doubt, doubt, Stefan thought to himself.</p><p>     “You’re telling me the two of them never fought, never had any kind of disagreements?” The detective heard the hard edge in his voice, saw the bafflement in the woman’s face, too late to reach out and stuff the words back in his mouth.</p><p>     “I don’t appreciate your tone, detective, and I certainly don’t appreciate being talked to like I’m some kind of criminal.” Barbara’s brow had stiffened and her lips were pursed together. “We may not have been married any longer, but the father of my children and someone I deeply cared for just died.”</p><p>     “I-I’m sorry, I -”</p><p>     “I don’t think I would like to answer any more of your questions.” She glared between the two detectives.</p><p>     Stefan felt Rusty’s arm around his shoulder spinning him around like a revolving door until he was facing back out to the street. “I’ll handle this.”</p><p>     Then his big, meaty paw clapped him on the back to send him on his way, almost propelling him down the steps in the process. Bekowsky walked to the car in a daze. Behind him, Rusty was trying to smooth things over with the woman to salvage what he could from the questioning.</p><p>     Bekowsky got back in the car and sat there silently like a kid in trouble who had to sit alone with his thoughts until mommy or daddy came to scold him. After a few moments the door opened beside him. His partner was standing there with his thumb out to the side like a well-dressed hitchhiker.</p><p>     “Get out, I’m driving.”</p><p>     “What? I always drive.”</p><p>     “Just get out, kid. Don’t make me pull rank.”</p><p>     Stefan’s mouth flopped open to argue but thought better of it. He got out with a shrug and went around to the passenger side. Rusty started the car and pulled out onto the street without a word. It seemed like Stefan’s admonishment would wait until later.</p><p> </p><p>     The Galway Arms, like many of the detectives who frequented it, was a longstanding LAPD institution. The bar had opened before the Great War and had even managed to survive Prohibition. “Managed to survive” - meaning that while the longstanding pub had continued to operate publicly as a music store, the back rooms and basement housed a speakeasy run by Guy McAfee and the LAPD’s Vice Squad. When Prohibition ended in ‘33, the Galway returned to full, public glory. Its days as a speakeasy were looked on fondly and joked about by veteran detectives, never mind that it was an illegal enterprise run by the very people who were supposed to shut it down.</p><p>     Many feet had trodden, and many more pints had been spilled, on its wooden floors over the years. A handful of cops could always be found within no matter the time of day due to the nature of the department’s shift work. Day or night, some joe with a badge at Central would be coming off shift and heading straight for the Galway with his fellow officers.</p><p>     Detectives Bekowsky and Galloway were seated side-by-side at the end of the bar. There was always an open stool for Rusty there and, by extension, his partner. “Rusty” Galloway was a weathered monument to those fresh-faced officers who hadn’t yet finished a year walking their beats. Come on in, have a drink, and don’t pay too much attention to what the police work and booze will do to you after twenty years on the job.</p><p>     After leaving the Fulton residence the detectives had gone to California Fire &amp; Life to get a read on that angle. The visit only confirmed things they already knew and yielded little else. Samuel Wilkins, the latest Vice-President of the insurance company, verified that Fire &amp; Life had been in talks to buy out America West in the last few months but that talks had slowly trudged along. He knew nothing about any kind of infighting at the smaller company. When Bekowsky suggested someone who might know about the conflict between the two partners might want to step in and speed things along themselves, Wilkins simply smiled and said, “America West is a small fish in an exceptionally big pond, detective. California Fire &amp; Life can afford to wait.”</p><p><em>      Smarmy bastard </em>, thought Stefan and savoured another taste of his whiskey. The two detectives were currently sipping away and speculating on the case, which had seemed to hit a brick wall.</p><p>     “Let’s lay it all out,” said Rusty. “The vic is spending the evening alone in his dingy rental. He’s having a drink alone in his living room when our guy busts through the front door. He has Fulton dead to rights. Pop, pop, pop - gives him a real night cap.”</p><p>     “Then he tosses the place but doesn’t do too good a job. Pulls all the drawers out, tosses his sheets, and makes a real mess of things, but he completely misses the stash of bills and doesn’t touch other areas entirely.”</p><p>     “Like the closet.”</p><p>     “Right, not a robbery. Nobody who was looking for money would’ve missed that stack. The intention of our perp was to kill Warren Fulton.”</p><p>     “What does that leave us with?”<br/>    “Rodney Emerson, his business partner. The recently widowed Mrs. Fulton. That sleazeball at Fire &amp; Life.</p><p>     “I’d throw the secretary into the mix for good measure.”</p><p>     Stefan chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Why?”</p><p>     “I dunno,” Rusty shrugged back. “Emerson could have gotten her to bump him off. Her job is at risk too, right?”</p><p>     “No stone unturned, huh partner?” He tapped his index finger repeatedly on the bartop as if playing a solitary piano key over and over. “Though it doesn’t narrow down our suspect list at all.”</p><p>     “And without evidence pointing any which way, we can’t put the finger on any of them.”</p><p>     “Sitting ducks,” Stefan agreed.</p><p>     So the two sat, descending into silence and whiskey-laced contemplation. The detectives’ minds were far apart despite sitting on adjacent stools. The sounds of glasses clinking and off-duty laughter bounced around the room while Stefan and Rusty grew frustrated in their thoughts.</p><p>     It had been months since Bekowsky had had a case that stopped him in his tracks. The chain of events was straightforward but they lacked the clues to dig deeper into any of their persons of interest. Sometimes an investigation was a dead-end alley littered with trash and urine, brick walls closing in on you from every side and the only way out was to back yourself out onto the street again.</p><p>     Back when he was working Traffic, it hadn’t bothered Stefan so much. It was a different story not catching your perp when someone had lost their car and not their life. You could still sleep at night with a brand new Packard on your conscience. A car didn’t stare up at you with lifeless headlights that silently pleaded for you to find the person who had cut their life short.</p><p>     Stefan looked over to find his partner staring at him again. He was certain he was going to catch a wise-guy comment, but instead he swerved back to their earlier interview.</p><p>     “What was that all about at the broad’s place? I don’t need you freezing up on me if a perp pulls a gat on us.”</p><p>     “It was nothing, Rust. It won’t happen again.”</p><p>     “I need to know I can trust you, that my partner has my back. You freeze out there when it really matters, you’ll be chained to a desk for the rest of your career.”</p><p>     Stefan cradled the glass in the palm of his hand, considering this. “How has that not happened to you after all those years?”</p><p>     “Cause I know it’s just a job. You get yourself too invested in the badge and the home life suffers. Look at Cole, and you can ask my ex-wife… wives.”</p><p>     “That’s a funny way of saying ‘stop caring’.” </p><p>     The older detective’s broad shoulders heaved up and back down. “It’s like any other job, kid. Clock in, clock out, and try not to screw things up too much.”</p><p>     “Besides which, I don’t even have a home life.”</p><p>     Rusty grinned. “That’s why you’re the perfect partner, Stefan. This right here is your home life.”</p><p>     Bekowsky felt his stomach churn right then and there and not from the liquor. Not because Rusty was offbase or delusional but because there was truth in what he said. How many nights had he spent at The Galway with Rusty since they had become partners? Stefan couldn’t say off the top of his head, but he knew they had grown in frequency since Cole’s death.</p><p>     Rusty’s glass was empty now and, come to think of it, so was Bekowsky’s. He didn’t remember downing the last half of it. The older detective was pointing down at them.</p><p>     “One for the ditch, partner?” </p><p>     “A what now?”</p><p>     Rusty jingled around the half melted ice in his glass. “One for the ditch. One more round before you call it quits, one more to tip you over the edge and send you off the sidewalk. Like our vic.”</p><p>     “Jesus, even Mal would call that one morbid,” said Stefan, shaking his head. He scooped his hat up from his knee, slid off the stool, and smacked a couple bills on the bar. “No, I’m good. I think I’m going to head home.”</p><p>     “Suit yourself, kid.” Rusty smirked, seemingly content for his drinking buddy to be the drink itself. Stefan imagined he was already settling in to profess his theories of detective work, women, and the universe to the bartender.</p><p>     Stefan passed by the tables and tools of cops, men just off duty who were drawing out the time with their fellow officers before they had to go home to girlfriends, wives, and kids. While they bided their time with beer and company, Bekowsky was rushing out to return to an empty apartment. They were each evading company of some kind in their own way.</p><p>Bekowsky stepped into the night air and took a moment to shake out a cigarette from his pack. The snap of his lighter brought a fresh wisp of smoke curling around his nostrils. Then the detective turned and loosely shuffled down the road, no clear purpose in his step, as yellow beams turned to red tail lights ahead of him.</p><p>
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